Perfect
by geekmama
Summary: "London rarely saw a storm of such violence last so many hours, but to Sherlock it had seemed a appropriate soundtrack to the drama unfolding at Bart's that fifth of September."


_**~ Perfect ~**_

 _For the 'Parents' prompt_

Gusting wind lashing constant, driving rain against the window; lightning crackling across the sky with alarming regularity, followed by thunder that ranged in volume from ominous to ear-splitting. London rarely saw a storm of such violence last so many hours, but to Sherlock it had seemed an appropriate soundtrack to the drama unfolding in St. Bart's new "Birthing Suite" that fifth of September.

The staff at Bart's had persuaded Molly to inaugurate the elaborately refitted room, which combined the latest in technology with a (supposedly) homelike coziness. It had been touted as the ultimate in comfort for prospective parents, but that was advertising for you, Sherlock thought bitterly. His discomfort with the room, the very _name_ of the room, and, of course, with the event itself, had been nearly on a par with his sojourn in that slavic torture chamber a few years back. And as for Molly...

It was true that she had excused him from attending. They had discussed it weeks before, and she had reiterated the suggestion that he might prefer to occupy himself in the waiting room when they'd first arrived at the hospital. But this was too much. _You don't want me,_ he'd sulked, and of course she'd made haste to apologize and assure him that was not the case at all. He had deigned to forgive her lack of faith, and, thus put on his mettle, had no choice but to stick the course. It had not crossed his mind that his absence might have made things easier for both of them. That sticking the course would be such a near run thing with him. That Mycroft's maxim, _Caring is not an advantage_ , would take on horrific new meaning in those long, anxious hours. Even courageous as she was, Molly's increasing distress was obvious to Sherlock, yet he'd been of little help to her. Later she'd assured him that this was not so, he'd been _perfect_ , his support vital to the successful outcome, the rock to which she'd clung in her time of need.

It was true she had clung. Weeks later he could still feel the ghostly grip of those small, slim hands, their desperate strength so clearly conveying her pain and, yes, finally, her fear. And there had been support, of a sort. though he didn't remember much detail about that, only a kind of nebulous terror, Molly _in extremis_ and the Great Sherlock Holmes able to do nothing. _Nothing._

It hadn't been quick. Or easy. Or bloodless.

But in the end, it was done. There may have been weeping. Molly had been grey and exhausted, but would be fine. And the baby, their son, Quinton Hamish Vernet Holmes, pink with a fuzz of dark hair and eyes of a fathomless blue, was, miraculously, perfect - the single truly _perfect_ aspect of the day.

Although there had been that moment, a few hours later, that had come quite close to attaining its own perfection.

With the coming of night, the storm outside had finally dwindled to a steady, soothing patter. Molly was enthroned in the lavishly pillowed bed, and Sherlock was perched carefully next to her, still feeling almost as drained as she looked, though he'd noticed there was now a pleased curve to her lips as she watched Quinn nurse, displaying an amazing proficiency for one so new to the world.

Then there was a quiet knock, the door opened, and Sherlock's parents peeked in.

His mother said, "I'm so sorry we've arrived this late, but may we see him, just for a moment?"

Molly's smile had blossomed, her pale cheeks taking on a flush of pink. "Of course! Come meet your grandson."

Mummy, already over the moon, tiptoed in and approached the bed, cooing, "Oh, the _darling boy!_ Oh, my dears, he's _perfect!"_

Quinn's grandfather lingered by the door, an amused expression in his eyes. Sherlock gave Molly a brief kiss on the top of her head and rose from his perch to join his father. From across the room they observed the ladies, both of whom seemed very much in their natural element.

Father said, quietly, "Mycroft kept us informed. We caught the first flight out, but that storm caused such delays."

"Just as well," Sherlock said with a shrug.

His father gave him a penetrating glance. "You stayed through it all? Was it… bad?"

He grimaced very slightly. "A bit."

"They seem fine."

"They do. Now. No thanks to my presence. Though Molly begs to differ."

Father nodded. "She would, of course. But just _being there_ counts for a great deal, you know _. I_ missed Mycroft's birth entirely - they'd asked me to speak at a conference in Heidelberg and since he was our first, I'd counted on him being a couple of days late, like your little one. Why, the doctor even said… but you know Mycroft. Punctual to a fault. I thought I'd never live it down, until you finally came along. But then, instead of redeeming myself, i managed to collapse in a dead faint in the vital moments."

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter. "You're joking!"

"Not at all. Ask your mother!"

And suddenly Sherlock was chuckling, his heart lighter than it had been in hours. Days. _Ages_. "Why have I never heard… surely Mycroft-"

"Your mother never breathed a word, to him or anyone else. And I was saving the story for you." His father gave him a pat on the shoulder, eyes twinkling. "For just such an occasion as this."

 **o-o-o**

So. A month later. October 5th. And apparently Quinn had slept through the night for the first time in his life.

Well, a good six hours at least.

Sherlock, rousing to rays of pale autumn sunlight filtering through the gap between the drapes, actually felt rested for a change, and Molly, spooned warm and close… _very_ close... was still deeply asleep.

Or maybe not as deeply as all that. She breathed a contented sigh, her backside moved provocatively, and her hand slid to cover his, which was cupping one delightfully rounded breast, now quite firm under its protective brazier and dampish absorbent pad. Sherlock fully appreciated every inch of his wife's slight figure, but he couldn't deny the current enhancements were exquisite. Delectable. Aesthetically pleasing. And - an added bonus - there seemed to be no lack of suitable sustenance for Quinn. He brushed his thumb lightly over the peak, and she hissed slightly, stiffening.

"Good morning," Sherlock murmured, nuzzling her ear, kissing her neck. Her hair smelled delicious.

She began to squirm around to face him. "What time is it? Is Quinn all right?"

"Just letting us sleep." And even as he spoke there were sounds from the cradle in the corner of the room. They stilled, listening to the small movements and sleepy vocalizations. The latter would inevitably increase in volume. "Shall I fetch him for you?"

"Not yet."

She kissed him, tenderly at first, and then with burgeoning passion. Sherlock smiled beneath the kiss, and his hands moved over her in a manner calculated to seduce. Her response was most satisfactory. Since Quinn's debut and all it entailed, she hadn't been much interested in this. Any of it. For the last month he'd had to content himself with memories: of their tentative, tantalizing early encounters; of the feverish, hormone-driven ardor she'd displayed during much of her pregnancy. In spite of the habit of discipline he'd acquired during his long years of abstinence, it had been disconcerting to be suddenly deprived of that to which he'd now become so happily addicted.

However…

"Two more weeks, Mrs. Holmes, according to your doctor."

"I know. But there are _some_ things we might do." She slid one hand south with carnal intent, and stifled his gasp with another kiss.

And then, of course, the baby began to fuss.

Their kiss turned to rueful laughter. Molly drew back and said, "Shall we reconvene at nap time?"

"God, I hope so." The fussing from the cradle intensified. "I'll get him."

The sight of his little son blinking up at him, soothed (temporarily) by his father's mere presence, served to assuage any residual annoyance most effectively. It was with real delight that Sherlock lifted the baby and held him close for a moment.

And then there were quiet sounds in the distance: the door of the flat opening, familiar footsteps. Sherlock looked up and met Molly's smiling eyes. "Mrs. Hudson, I believe. Tea is served."

" _And_ scones," Molly said, settling back against the pillows she'd rearranged. _"_ She told me last night she'd be baking this morning." She held out her arms. "Come here, my sweet boy!"

But Sherlock sat beside her and demanded another kiss before handing the baby over.

"My sweet _boys_ ," Molly said, and complied, ruffling Sherlock's hair.

And the mobile buzzed on the nightstand.

As Molly prepared to nurse Quinn (and one would have to be dead to tire of that sight), Sherlock purused the text. "Lestrade," he said slowly. "Sounds like a four. Maybe a five." He looked up at Molly. "I should be back by nap time."

"Are you sure?" she said, pouting. Then, unable to maintain the mask, she giggled.

He cracked a grin. "I'll text John, save him from languishing in the suburbs. I can leave him to finish up if it runs long."

A quarter of an hour later he was dressed, had received an affirmative text from John, and was donning his scarf and Belstaff as he strode in to kiss his wife and son goodbye.

Molly beamed, looked him over appreciatively. "You're gorgeous! Don't forget to take a scone, and one for John, too. And _don't_ forget nap time. I find I'm quite set on it."

"Perfect!" said Sherlock.

And it was. Every bit of it.

~.~


End file.
